Red
by Yuki KIKI
Summary: Short ficlet. Johnny ponders the nature of things as he feeds his wall ('Mental Drool' would be a more appropriate title...) Hopefully not too painful.


A/N: Whoo! I have no idea what's going on here. I attribute this mass of mental drool to 4:07 am, which happens to be the current time I'm typing this crap out. The insane hours my plot-bunnies strike scares me to no end, but alas I won't be able to sleep until I get this out. Yes, that means I shit this thing out in one pathetic night. In under half an hour. I hope it doesn't result in any organs imploding from its sheer hideousness.

Disclaimer: I somewhat doubt I'll actually have the guts to post this thing, but just in case, Johnny the Homicidal Maniac belongs to Jhonen Vasquez.

**Red**

_Here we are, here we stand_

_Trapped inside this Wonderland_

_Moving in circles, following around_

_They go up but we fall down_

-Wonderland/ the Machine in the Garden

The thin chest heaved as he panted, red dripping gracefully down the darkened wall. A gloved hand clenched the paintbrush tighter- More. He needed more. It needed more.

A distant part of himself idly wondered if there would ever be enough. Seas and rivers and oceans of red yet It was never satisfied, It's hunger never sated. The same scared voice wondered how long it would be until it was his blood upon which It fed. The bile rose as the silent screams swelled from the depths of his home- his hell. A hell he had willingly fashioned for himself, bending over backwards in blind slavery to a blasphemous god lurking within his walls, within his mind.

A claw-like hand swept up to rest against his head, the cool fabric a small comfort against his burning forehead. He could feel it, the Sickness swirling within the depths of himself, forever swelling and ebbing upon the corners of his consciousness. A sea of red red red flowing, rushing, crying, screaming, a thousand faces swallowed by the Darkness within the wall. The darkness within himself- a parasite growing deep deep down inside, a numbness chewing away upon the frayed edges of his reality.

It was funny really, in a bitter, ironic sort of way. A thousand and one faces, personalities, families, friends, black, white, male, female... A life of misery, a life of mockery, trails leading down ten thousand different paths, a life full of hope and opportunity. Yet here, there was no difference, here was proof- No matter who or what a person may have once believed themselves to be, it all leads back to this. This. Red red red dripping slowly down the walls. He supposed that one could assume that meant inside, they were all the same, but no, that wasn't true. It simply couldn't be- No, not everyone was human. Not everyone deserved to be. What dripped down those walls, what clung thick in the air until he chocked, what fed the ever ravenous hunger of the Beast within was in fact the blood of pigs. Pigs cruelly wrapped within the warmth of human flesh, squealing and gorging upon the death and misery and rot they bred. It was fitting that they should wind up being sacrificed to a Darkness they themselves thrive so greedily upon.

He paused for a moment to entertain this notion, casually leaning back on a box of nails. Perhaps that is why the hunger never faded. Perhaps as he fed the Monster in the wall, It fed the Monster in man. Admittedly, he didn't really like that notion. He sighed heavily as he dropped the paintbrush into the emptied bucket at his feet, the half-dried brush landing with a heavy slop. He was... tired. Yes, he supposed that was a decent enough word to use. Not tired in the body (well, okay, actually he was about ready to pass out, but he'd rather not succumb to the demons in his head and sleep), he was tired... deeper. And he hurt. Hurt in ways he couldn't even begin to understand. But that was okay he supposed, everyone felt this way at some point in their lives right? Right? It wasn't like he was broken, it was more like... like he hadn't been put together properly in the first place. He couldn't be fixed, he couldn't be fixed, he couldn't be whole. All he could be, all he could hope for, was this darkness, this gaping hole within himself, this mouth of pain forever spewing red red red until it blotted out everything. His memories, his happiness, he couldn't even see the room surrounding him anymore, just red. An ocean of red and the faces, swirling deep within, never focusing into clarity, but never fading away, the screams never leaving. No matter how many times he scrubbed and scrubbed, the stains never left. Never.

But... He wasn't happy. He wasn't... right. Something tore him, deeper than the darkness, it cried out for... something. Something he dared not name for fear it would shatter him more completely than the Thing in the wall, than the Doughboys, than the mindless hatred and weeping sickness of society. He could hear it, faintly in the strings of Nailbunny's pleading voice, could see it deep in the wide, innocent eyes of the boy next-door, smell it distantly wafting upon Devi's perfume. A shift, a skip, a ripple in the thin fabric of what he perceived as real. He could feel it, almost like when a word was stuck at the tip of his tongue, he could feel himself so close to clarity, teetering dangerously on the edge. He could feel it killing him slowly; he hated it, but needed it so much so much... So much without even understanding why...

But the red, the red would drip down, blind him, run slick through his fingers, submerge him in its sick comfort, a thousand corpses, a mother's gentle caress. He lifted himself wearily from the box, his dark eyes cracking open once again. All this thinking was beginning to get him down. It pulsed within the depths of the swirling miasma of red, the Wall Monster. It grew angry, impatient. It hungered, and Johnny was to deliver. He could feel the walls closing in around him, throbbing with some sick pulse as they drew ever closer. He numbly picked up the bucket and turned away, dragging up the steps, slick with (you guessed it) red. He supposed he was a coward, but it was easier this way, easier to submit to the Monster.

It was easier to face the red of the world, than the black inside himself.

Ending Rant.

Boy Howdy that sucked. Before anyone jumps down my throat, it's supposed to be disjointed and non-sensical. This is Johnny we're talking about. Wow. After almost a month I actually posted this thing... (I'll probably wind up taking it down later to be honest... So... _Bad_...)


End file.
